Thoughtless
by InTheVast
Summary: An unwelcome visitor inside Ron's dream shatters his fragile grasp on reality and fantasy, setting forth a chain of occurrences that are hard for both of them to fathom. R
1. The Dream

This is really odd and it does have strong elements of slash and angst so read no further if that's not your cup of tea, it will not be held against you. LOL. Reviewers are always one of the coolest things at ff.net. Constructive criticism is just as great. ***  
  
It was a beautiful tree. It looked like something from a painting.  
  
It was a giant, stretching out into oblivion and it was all alone. Traces of snow dusted the stretched out branches of the tree. It hadn't snowed for a while though. It had a double edge result, the beautiful, lush green and the pure crystal effect of the snow.  
  
All in all, it was breathtaking. If I squinted I could see the beginnings of the sun coming out over the mountains. Just a hint of fiery orange, but other then that it was dark.  
  
Not so dark that I couldn't see the most beautiful thing of all. Hundreds of glass icicle birds hanging, no gliding in the trees like Christmas tree ornaments. Beautiful, every feature in them engraved with painstaking care.  
  
Their gilded wings outstretched and every feather etched in a hauntingly memorable type of beauty.  
  
Someone had loved these birds, someone had crafted them out of their own hands, treasuring as if they were like their own child.  
  
It seemed even more precious because of that. Because it was me who knew about it, nothing exceptionally special about me, so it was odd that this image would be in my dreams.  
  
I was wrapped up in mum's Christmas presents, a maroon sweater, a red scarf and regular black corduroys with a brand new rip in the knee. Stupid, clumsy me had tripped on my own shoelace and tumbled down the stairs and got tangled up in myself, and ended up with a new bruise and another piece of gypped clothing.  
  
But still I don't let my problems infect this dream. I don't want the birds to be tainted with my problems.  
  
It seems this dream is the only thing that gets me through the days.  
  
This dream held back the things weighing down my soul when I was awake, it held back Harry's overwhelmingly growing God complex, and Hermione's biting comments of self superiority, sometimes made only to remind me that I'm nothing.  
  
I don't kid myself of anything; though sometimes it's nice to pretend that I'm not going to become a lowly bottom worker at the ministry, curtsey of a father who thinks of me very little. I don't get into really bad trouble, I'm not the youngest, my grades aren't exceptionally wonderful or horribly below average.  
  
So I think this dream is my mind's way of coping with the life before me. With Harry being my best friend and always listening to me, but all the while never wanting to lower himself to really understand what I'm talking about. And I can't blame him.  
  
And still my life in general doesn't get any better, Draco's always there, inhaling my never completely concealed weaknesses like a drug. His evident amusement at my shabby mental and physical state, and the fact that I'm losing grip with what's my reality, something I can't so readily accept. Sometimes I think he knows me better then anyone else, his eyes are always on me, observing and watching. He can sense me breaking down inside I think.  
  
Snape is coming down on me even harder, making me repeat the ingredients to potions over and over out loud for the class, while Harry shoots me sympathetic glances, already discussing the next potions essay with Hermonie.  
  
So this is my dream. A place of beauty and coldness, glass birds captured in frozen splendor, perched on outstretched branches, and there's even something in the way they were made that tells me something else. They look like they about to fly away.  
  
There's wistfulness inside myself to join them.  
  
I shiver, it's just a dream I know, but sometimes I can almost sense the line that separates it from being reality.  
  
"Cold?" Asks a smooth voice behind me.  
  
I turn, startled. Draco Malfoy standing right there, is he really here, or is it just my dream?  
  
Malfoy looks like he has taken a long climb, his hair is tousled and his cheeks are ruddy, making the pallid appearance of his skin even more sharper, his breath comes out in cold puffs, looking not unlike smoke coming out of a burning furnace. But still he looks impeccable, beautiful even. And even more untouchable and aloof.  
  
"Well are you going to speak to me or are you just going to stand there like a dumb git?" He asks, stamping his foot.  
  
I watch him take in the site around him, the rising sun, burning across the horizon, lighting up every glass bird in the tree, rainbow reflections shimmering on his face, his eyes travel up the majesty of the tree, then finally they are back on me, capturing me under a steady, gray eyed gaze studying me and capturing me under his wide-eyed stare. Like I'm the most interesting object in this dream of beauty.  
  
I bite my lip hard, and I feel a short moment of pain, and I feel the line of fantasy and reality in my dream obscuring and retreating even further.  
  
"Annihilare!" Draco says, whipping his wand out and aiming at one of the birds on the tree.  
  
There's a sound of glass shattering and I see the bird exploding from some invisible power. I shield my face too late from the flying glass, and I can feel blood seeping through a cut on my cheek, I cover it with my hand and I feel the blood moving through the cracks between my fingers, and trickling down my wrist as Draco repeats the ageless invocation aiming his wand at every bird and they break apart like cheap petty toys for children. It breaks something inside of me to see my one solace in defaced fragments.  
  
I cry out, and I'm grabbing him by the forearms, furious, trying to wrestle the wand from him. I know that it isn't one of the brightest things I could do. But I'm reacting on pure fury now, it's all that's left inside of me.  
  
I pummel him to the ground, sitting on top of his waist and strangely he isn't even trying to fight back.  
  
His gray eyes are wide inside his pale face, watching me, and he looks utterly fascinated.  
  
I can't help myself, I punch him hard, across the face, and my fist hurts. He says nothing, but a few seconds later his long, slender fingers are interrupting a small river of blood that is dribbling from his nose, trailing down to the perfect curve of his lip. I watch in spite of myself.  
  
His fingers are slicked red, and he puts them in his mouth and licks the blood off, I can see his throat working, swallowing.  
  
Fuck.  
  
"What are you doing here?" I ask, and curse myself as soon as the sentence comes out my mouth. I sound like I'm on the verge of bursting out in tears.  
  
"How the hell am I supposed to know? Do you think I choose this?" This sentence is carefully chosen, his mouth has moved to form those words, but his eyes show no recollection of it.  
  
Helpless. I can feel the stinging in my eyes as I try not to cry. My hands ball into fists, I can feel my fingernails cutting into my palms, creating bloody half-moons.  
  
"Why- why did you do that to those birds?"  
  
"They were only glass." This is said with a shrug; strange how dignified Malfoy can look beneath me and with a bloody nose.  
  
"They were mine." I say and I can feel the desperation creeping in my voice. The birds are gone, how am I ever going to sleep now?  
  
"If you really want to know why I did it, I'll tell you. I wanted to destroy something beautiful. I wanted to know that I did it. To be able to look into utter destruction and desecration and to know that you did it is one of the most sensational feelings you can ever know Ron." His eyes are on my face, carefully gauging my reaction.  
  
A thoughtless act of violence.  
  
I'm silent. I think about the birds, they are jagged imperfections now. Wingless, faceless creatures.  
  
I'm still thinking this when Draco's hands are wrapping around my neck and pulling my face down to his. His lips meet mine and I do not protest.  
  
He kisses me brutally, his tongue ravishing mine bloody senseless. He's cupping my chin, with a soft hand, teasing my lips open with an easy trick of his mouth.  
  
Our blood, a shallow cut on my cheek and a threading stream of blood on Draco's face, is mingling together, swirling around in a beautiful imbalance, something has started and I know with sudden comprehension that it will not stop.  
  
He stops suddenly, pulling away, and looking up at me, in one quick motion, he's on top, forcing me into the ground, rubbing his hardness against my own and small sounds are escaping from my mouth.  
  
Draco's face is bloody, his face floating between ecstasy and pain.  
  
"I want to know everything about you." He says, watching me, leaning over me, and our noses are touching, and his fingers have somehow ended up tangled in my hair. Our lips are swollen from the cold and from our unhindered kisses.  
  
I can't say anything. I'm a burning, inarticulate thing. Wanting what he can give me.  
  
And his lips capture mine again, gently though, like a promise.  
  
I wake up with a gasp. I'm sitting straight up and clutching sheets with my fists and the knuckles are white and rimmed with red.  
  
I'm trying to control my unsteady breathing, while looking around me. Gryffindors dorm.  
  
Harry is sound asleep in a bed across from me, his face turned away from my direction.  
  
My hand reaches up to touch my face and my cheek is still bleeding. 


	2. Expiration and Commencement

ff.net has been pissing me off lately, which makes me lazy when it comes to updating. However, when I once thought that this would only be a one hit, type thing has formulated into something more, I already have the next chapter written and the juries still out on when that will be posted. As for fans of my fic Stitches, I do have the next chapter written, but the censorship-happy fascists at ff.net will not let me change the rating to an R, (as of yet there is no nc-17 parts) so I'm going to have to reupload it sooner or later, *scowls* more then likely, I'll just write the nc-17 parts, but not post them at ff.net, chances are they will be available at another site. Any offers? LOL. Anyway- sorry to bore you with such a long author's note, but without further a due, I present to you. *make's bowing motion* The 2nd chapter of Thoughtless.  
  
It seems like every day's the same And I'm left to discover on my own I feel the dream in me expire And there's no one left to blame it on - "Fine Again" by Seether  
  
The cut on my cheek hadn't healed. When Harry and the others had woken up, they had immediately clamored around me, and Harry had insisted I see the nurse, saying that if I didn't get the proper ointments it would be a scar.  
  
I ended up there, alone of course, Harry had hurried off shortly after we arrived, mummering something about Quidditch practice, never bothering to ask how I had gotten the cut, only plainly giving me the impression that the reason he was going with me was because he felt obliged to do so.  
  
I couldn't help but feel some vestige of hatred and bitterness rising inside of myself as I watched the small black clothed figure diminish into the hallways.  
  
Unknowingly my hands had clenched into fists when I thought about him out there, flying and zigzagging crazily on that broom of his, sunlight burning those colorless cheeks.  
  
And here I was, waiting for Madame Pomfrey to find the correct bandages and antibiotics. She was in the magic medication supply room, and I could hear her rummaging around frantically.  
  
Dumbly, I held my hand up to my cheek, my index finger tracing the smooth line. She came into the room.  
  
"Ron Weasley," She said sternly, sounding a lot like my mother. "You really shouldn't touch that cut until it's healed, and that means after I have put the proper medications on it. Unfortunately, I believe I may have to track down Mr. Filch. to errr, help me locate the 2nd magical medications closet, see we seem to have run out of bandages, after poor, poor Thomas Weans had that accident in defense against the dark arts." She appeared to trail off, and then noticing my edgy glare, quickly added, "I'll be back in a min. . . Well perhaps a little longer, Ron, if you like, you may lay out on one of the patient beds." Without a backward glance she was out of the room, robes swishing, the sound getting softer and softer by the second.  
  
Yawning and rubbing my swollen lips, I was standing up to stretch, then falling almost simultaneously upon the bed.  
  
Sprawled on the bed, I flipped over, hands beneath my head, staring up at the ceiling.  
  
Tiredness had crept back into my mind sometime during the day, and already I could feel my eyes dangerously close to fluttering shut, but an implication of concern had gathered at the back of my mind.  
  
What would my dreams be like now, when I couldn't even see the birds again? What type of peace could they possibly hold for me now?  
  
I tried to envision the tree, with the perfect birds, beautiful and celestial glacier beauty touched by hints of frost. But instead it was gone. The tree, still majestic, but the birds hanging there in ruined jagged little broken imperfections; the sparse grass had shiny pieces of glass littering the expanse.  
  
And when I pictured it that way, I had to picture Draco inside the thought, obstructing the perfect melting colors of the sunrise across the horizon, half slouching, but still managing to have his nose up in the air. Delicate hands stuffed into pockets. Crystalline eyes and skin, a shock of white blonde hair, tousled and yet precise and those beautiful lips that I had so abruptly became familiar with curled into a sardonic sneer, he was somehow inviting and forbidding, dangerous and innocent all at once. Fucking paradox.  
  
It was almost like he was setting forth a challenge, in the way his body spoke to me, the way his eyes watched.  
  
Almost tentatively, I took a step closer to him in my fantasy.  
  
A small noise from the real world coaxed me to stir from my daydream.  
  
My eyes cracked open, even though that hadn't even been a real dream, waking up always seemed like something I would regret later.  
  
Surveying the surroundings, I guess I was trying to figure out what had happened and the source of the noise I had heard, I noticed one thing exceptionally out of place amid the cheerful clutter inside Madame Pomfrey's office. Draco Malfoy.  
  
But I wasn't surprised strangely. Only worried.  
  
He had a honey blonde eyebrow curved elegantly in my direction, a purposefully sexy half- smile gracing his lips. He was wearing normal Hogwarts standard edition robes, black and perfect.  
  
For some reason my inner being was panicking, my hands had clenched, then unclenched, hovering besides my hips, unsure what to do.  
  
"I was watching you sleep." Came Malfoy's voice, somehow a shock to the uneasy silence.  
  
"What- what?" I said stupidly.  
  
He looked at me for a second longer, smile slowly fading, to a look of utter perplexity. He inspected the room carefully, eyes lingering here and there, then finally capturing my face.  
  
I do not look back at him, I lower my eyes, and so they cannot gaze into his.  
  
I had not moved an inch from the sprawled position on the bed I had assumed earlier, I was afraid too.  
  
He was gliding closer to the bed, his eyes smoldering expressively into mine. He was close enough to touch.  
  
"Are you mourning the loss of you birds Ron?" He asked softly.  
  
I said nothing. It felt like blasphemy to even talk about it with him, even to look at his eyes, that were burning with barely repressed passion, approaching the surface of his emotions.  
  
"Talk to me." He whispered. I turned my head away, mentally forcing my hands away from my face, the stinging tears in my eyes blurring and contorting my vision.  
  
"I can't." I say, but I still refuse to look at him, I can't. Every fiber in my soul is warning me against it.  
  
I feel his gentle hand cupping my chin, tilting my head back to his direction. It's a pull, a calling that I can't resist.  
  
Our eyes meet, and then our lips are touching, pulled together like magnets; his free hand is caressing my cheek, a finger trailing over my cut gently.  
  
I'm kissing him now and he's *letting* me, and it seems this kiss is the one thing in my life I have some sibilance of control over, I've already lost the comfort of my family, my friends, my dreams . . . why not this too? I'm the one who wants, who needs, and I'm devouring Draco's mouth without a hint of self-control.  
  
My tongue meets his; and I'm sucking on his lower lip, pulling it into my mouth, biting. Draco is kissing back, just as hard, fighting for control. I moaned against his mouth, but he showed no sign of hearing me. His hand was tangled in my hair, tugging it harshly.  
  
Somehow he ended up on the bed with me (God, he's sitting on my fucking lap) and our bodies are crushed against each other, creating a satisfying type of pain.  
  
His hips are pressing into mine, driving our groins together. This time, I knew that Draco heard my moan, for he bit down on my lip hard, and thrusted even more firmly against me. As much as I tried to fight it, I could feel heat contracting and swelling inside my jeans. Wildly, I began to press back, needing more, crying out for further contact, aching for some moment of release.  
  
He pulled away, his gray eyes locking into mine. His lips are kiss swollen and his gasps for air matches mine.  
  
His hand is still firmly gripping my chin.  
  
"Ron," he asks. "What do you think death is?"  
  
"What?" I ask, I'm still breathless, unable to understand.  
  
"Death." He says slowly, as if I'm too stupid to realize. "What do you think it is?"  
  
He's still perched on my goddamn lap and I'm silent.  
  
"What do you think happens?" He pushes. His hand is a pressure on my lap, tracing intricate, invisible designs on my denim-clad knee, fingers feeling my skin through the worn holes, moving slowly up to my thigh.  
  
"I guess I believe the same everyone else does." I say, for some unnamable reason, I'm uncomfortable, flustered and lying.  
  
His eyes seem to penetrate my soul-just for the briefest instant, and then retreats. Maybe he knows that I've stopped believing my family's ideas on the more theological points of life. Then again, maybe he doesn't.  
  
His index finger is moving upwards, tracing my lips, there's a look of utmost concentration on his face.  
  
I open my lips and I'm sucking his finger deep into the velvet slickness of my mouth. I give each long, finger equal treatment. There is not an inch of his hand that is not explored by my tongue.  
  
I kiss his curled up hand, licking the bumps and indents of his knuckles and his skin is sweet there.  
  
I remove his slender hand from my mouth and ask him the same question. My hand still languidly stroking his. I feel a strange sense of intimacy towards him; it's uneven with our pasts.  
  
"What do you think death is?" My voice sounds husky, whoreish. I hate myself for it.  
  
"I think. . . it's like when you dream, and there's nothing there. . . just a black abyss, a dark void to take you over. . ." His voice trails off wistfully.  
  
I can't help it. I shiver at his description; his idea of death seems a confirmation of my worst fears. I can't help but notice how his eyes gauge my reaction carefully.  
  
Blinking, I lower my head, and he's leaning forward again, our lips melding together, just for one sweet, lingering moment.  
  
His mouth moves over to the curve of my cheekbone, then over my ear. I hear his voice, hot and wet in my ear.  
  
"I hear that bitch Pomfrey coming back." He says.  
  
And sure enough, craning my neck to listen, I hear her echoing footsteps down the hall, moving closer and closer.  
  
Still Draco hasn't moved, he's balanced on my lap, arms wrapped around my neck. Does he want to be caught?  
  
"Get out of here!" I hiss, shoving him off of me. He falls gracefully off the bed, and glares up at me under his lowered fair eyelashes from the tiled floor.  
  
His scathing scowl continues, as he languidly brushes himself off, standing up and slowly edging closer towards the door. His hand is on the knob, but before he can twist, it is turned beneath his palm, the door opened and Madam Pomfrey was standing there, just in time to see Draco blow me a kiss, she's starring with an open mouth, rolled up bandages dropped and unraveling on the floor.  
  
She's taking in both Draco's and my disheveled appearances.  
  
"You boys. . . you weren't fighting were you?" Her voice comes out uncertain and shocked, she must *know* what we were doing. Women's intuition or whatever.  
  
Draco doesn't dignify her with an answer, simply pushes past her and gives me a last hateful sneer over his shoulder.  
  
I can't help but wonder what I did wrong. I just don't seem to understand anything anymore.  
  
That night I cannot go to sleep. 


	3. Fade

Ok I have a question, should this story continue to be Ron's P.O.V, or should I venture into some Draco P.O.Vs? What do you guys think? Plus regular comments, praises, suggestions, constructive criticism are always welcome. ***  
  
It's the next day when I walk into the dining room for breakfast. Earlier Harry had left without me for the 8th time in the row, when I accuse him of doing it on purpose he claims I'm being daft.  
  
So I walk in alone, and immediately all conversation halts. At first I think it's just my lack of sleep, or my overactive imagination that's making me think this. But with burning cheeks I realize this is not true. Kids are turning around and blatantly starring at me.  
  
I do not know what is going on. With lowered head and eyes, I make my way towards where I usually sit with the rest of the Gryffindors, by Harry and Hermonie. Shuffling clumsily I sit down, the whole room is coming slowly back to life, snatches of conversation from lowered voices can be heard here and there.  
  
"Hermonie? Harry?" I whisper.  
  
Hermonie gives me a very disgusted stare; Harry pointedly looks the other way.  
  
"What's wrong?" I ask, my voice still a murmur.  
  
"We know all about you and Draco. There's no reason to deny it." Hermonie says maliciously.  
  
I redden furiously.  
  
"I don't understand." I say feeling tears sting my eyes. I'm so stupid.  
  
"Don't you know what Malfoy is saying about you Ron?" It's Harry's voice, shocked, bewildered and with strong hints of repulsion.  
  
Frantically, I see over Harry's shoulder. It's Draco, he's polished and beautiful, his refined features on display under the soft glow of the surrounding lights. There's a casual smirk on his face and he's encircled by a group of Slytherin boys, who are all grinning wildly and listening to Draco.  
  
I look back at Harry and Hermonie and both of them are looking back at me, their mouths set in identical, hard and cold lines.  
  
"What did he say?" I say finding my voice at last even though it is shaking and on the near verge of being hysterical.  
  
"Only the truth Ron." Hermonie says. "At least Harry and I know where you have been all this time." She continues smugly.  
  
"What did he say?" I repeat, the humiliation inside of myself rising to a crescendo.  
  
"That he slept with you, no wait, I believe his words were that he "fucked" you." Her voice is curt and sarcastic. Biting to the bone.  
  
"What?" I say. "But that never happened. . ." My voice falters, the next sentence is wobbly and unsteady.  
  
"How can you believe him over me? You guys are supposed to be my friends!"  
  
"Oh please Ron. You're never around anymore. You don't even come to Harry's Quidditch practices. Whenever I see you, you have this dreamy look all over your face; I'm just surprised it took me so long to piece it all together. I even knew before Draco started airing all the details, Madam Pomfrey actually sought Harry and me out yesterday and asked us if we noticed anything unusual about the two of you." She says.  
  
This enrages me. My hands are moving into fists. I stand up.  
  
"And so fucking what!" I yell. "Just because I have some sort of relationship with Draco you guys are just going to stop talking to me?"  
  
"Just because?" Hermonie states. "Ron what you and Malfoy are doing is disgusting. It's wrong." She says frostily.  
  
I look at Harry, he looks back and under my steady glare, he flinches.  
  
I really look at Harry, hard for the first time in a long time. His black hair is wet from his morning shower; his green eyes look dead flat, no longer the animated, brightness I remember from our 1st year.  
  
"Is that the way you feel too Harry? That I'm repulsive?" I say.  
  
He hesitates; long enough for my heart to swell with something like hope.  
  
"I think you should leave Ron. You're making a scene." He says after a moment.  
  
And it's true, conversations around us were on a standstill, even Fred and George were paying attention to something other then themselves for a change.  
  
Draco has even stopped talking lies about me to his friends from his corner of the dinning hall, his eyes are on my face, but I don't trust myself to make eye contact.  
  
I pause before turning and running out the dining hall, and as soon as the doors shut behind me, I break into uncontrollable sobs.  
  
I do not hear the doors slam again behind me, or the footsteps that follow it. The footfall of expensive shoes cautiously approaching me.  
  
A hand grips my forearm, pulling me towards the owner.  
  
"Ron?" He asks, his voice is soft.  
  
I turn around; I already know who it is.  
  
I punch Draco, hard. His face is knocked backward from the force of the blow and then he's sprawled on the ground. Dazed, and looking up at me, his pale hand reaches up and feels the freshly colored imperfection on his cheek.  
  
Something dark deep inside of myself swells.  
  
I can't stop myself; I'm on top of him punching that lovely, superior face into the ground over and over again with the bony knuckles of my fist. It fills me with a terrible type of satisfaction, to grind his face to the floor, to bloody his lips and bruise his cheeks with no sense of conscience.  
  
I think I'm realizing what it means to ruin something beautiful.  
  
Like in my dream, he makes no move to defend himself. There's the sound of Draco, making small noises at every volatile blow that rocks his head back from sheer strength. There's blood, and my hands are slicked shiny with it.  
  
I am pummeling Draco's face and I'm not even aware that I'm doing it; the only meager reminder is the growing ache in my hands, it has a numbing, stunning effect on the beating and on my fury.  
  
When my hands fall powerless, weakly to my sides, bruised from the repetitive impacts of my fist contacting with Draco's now battered face, I feel something inside myself break, something similar to the wanton sound of glass shattering and the final clatter of it hitting grass.  
  
I grab Draco's chin, forcing his head up. His gray eyes blink, dazed, confused and my mouth meets his bruised excuse for one. I run my tongue forcefully over his, brutally pressing mouth against mouth. I stop the kiss almost as instantly as it began, and burry my head into his small, skinny shoulder.  
  
My still hands, tightened to turn knuckles white. And all I can feel is what's inside of myself, the sensations that are amplified at every moment of my life. The things that trickle down my insides; hurt, pain, confusion.  
  
Draco reaches up with frail, shaky hands and holds me as I cry wordlessly into his shoulder.  
  
We stay like that for a long time.  
  
***  
  
Wish I was too dead to cry  
  
My self-affliction fades  
  
Stones to throw at my creator  
  
Masochists to which I cater  
  
You don't need to bother;  
  
I don't need to be  
  
I'll keep slipping farther  
  
But once I hold on,  
  
I won't let go 'til it bleeds  
  
-Stone Sour "Bother" 


End file.
